скачать книгу бесплатно
His eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean? A long recovery.”
“Weeks, at the very least. She’s lost a lot of blood, and she was underweight and anemic to begin with.”
“I can’t wait that long.”
Anger hardened inside Leah. “Then you’re taking a terrible risk with your wife’s health, sir,” she snapped. “Now, can you help bring her to her bed?”
“Doc.” His voice was flat, neutral. “Dr. Mundy.”
“Yes?”
“I wish you’d quit looking at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you, sir?”
“Like I was a snake under a rock.”
“If you see things from the perspective of a snake, that is your fault, not mine.”
He muttered beneath his breath, something she didn’t even want to hear, but he cooperated, helping her with Carrie.
“Will you stay, then?” Leah asked as they carefully tucked Carrie into bed. “No matter how long her recuperation takes?”
Jackson T. Underhill dragged his hand down his face in a gesture she was coming to recognize as his response to frustration. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”
Like a morning mist, a rare, dreamy wistfulness enveloped Leah as she made her way back from the Winfield place. She had driven herself in the buggy since the weather was fine and the vehicle unlikely to get mired. Ordinarily, Mr. Douglas from the boardinghouse did the driving. But he was getting on in years, and she tried not to drag him out of bed too early.
Her father had insisted on a driver, claiming it bolstered his image of importance. The thought of her father took Leah back in time. She was nine years old again, done up in ribbons and bows, seated stiffly in the parlor of their Philadelphia house while he drilled her on her sums. Even now, she could recall the scent of wood polish, could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Could see the chilly glare of her father growing colder when she stumbled over a number.
“I’m sorry, Father,” she’d said, her voice meek. “I’ll study harder. I’ll do better next time.”
And she did do better the next time. She perfected everything he demanded of her, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Edward Mundy had done a splendid job of convincing his daughter that no matter how hard she studied, no matter how hard she tried, she would never please him.
He’d wanted her to be a doctor, yes, because he had no son to carry on in the profession. But he’d also expected her to marry, and marry well. There had been an endless parade of suitors arranged by her father, but they never stayed. The men she met had no idea what to do with a woman like her. They wanted someone who laughed and danced and gossiped, not someone who studied anatomy and voiced opinions that raised eyebrows.
Lulled by the creaking rhythm of the buggy wheels, Leah thrust aside the dark memories. Her father was gone. The past was gone. It was up to her to keep it at bay.
She watched the roadway unfold between the horse’s brown ears and thought about the Winfields. The birth had been an easy one; the baby had emerged healthy and whole into her eager, waiting hands. She would never tire of the warm, slippery feel of newborn flesh. The look of wonder from the father, the triumphant tears of the mother. But most of all, she loved the first gasp of breath as the baby inhaled, the lusty cry that said, “Here I am, world, alive and hale,” followed by the glorious rush of crimson as the child took on the flush of life.
Each time you save a life, Sophie had told her, you yourself are reborn.
On spring mornings like this, a week after Mrs. Underhill’s miscarriage, Leah could believe it. She had been called from her bed at five to attend Mrs. Winfield. Just two hours later, the baby had made his appearance, and Mr. Winfield, overjoyed, had paid Leah—immediately and well, a rare surprise since most of her patients tended to procrastinate when it came to settling fees.
So with pride in delivering Coupeville’s newest citizen and carrying a gold double eagle in the pocket of her smock, Leah was in excellent spirits.
She practiced the most glorious profession of all, that of healing, saving lives, relieving suffering. She had been an exemplary student, studying harder than her male counterparts, performing better than her father’s expectations for her, and in the end knowing the triumph of succeeding against all odds.
Yet inevitably as always, a shadow crept in on her, dimming her elation. Because even as she stood holding a newborn, the time always came for her to surrender the child to its mother. To watch the father gather them both in his arms while a glow of radiance surrounded them.
Some might claim the notion pure fancy, but Leah had seen that glow again and again. She wondered if she was the only one who recognized the magic, who realized what love and family could do. They could transform a plain woman into a vision of loveliness, could light the dark corners of the meanest lean-to hovel.
Perhaps it was her fate to be an observer, but dear God, there were times when she yearned to experience that joy for herself. Love and family. At quiet moments like this, with the clopping of hooves punctuating the silence, she could feel the fear growing inside her. It was like a fistula, a cancer. It was the horror that she would never know that kind of love. That she would grow old alone and lonely.
She released a pent-up sigh and turned the buggy down Main Street, clucking to the horse. The mare picked up her pace, but with a reluctant blowing of her lips.
Lined with shops and churches, the gravel road cleaved the hilly town in two and descended to the waterfront. Across the Sound, the rising sun burst with a dazzle over the jagged white teeth of the distant Cascade mountain range.
Some activity at the harbor caught her eye, mercifully distracting her from her thoughts. Peering through the light layers of mist, she saw Davy Morgan, the harbormaster’s apprentice, come out of the small, low office at the head of Ebey’s Landing. The youth stretched as he yawned to greet the day. The first rays of sunshine shot through his vivid red hair.
Davy shaded his eyes in the direction of the dock where Jackson Underhill’s schooner bobbed at its moorage. The disabled rudder hung askew like a broken arm.
An unpleasant wave of guilt swept through Leah. The steerage was damaged because of her, and apparently repairing it was quite a task. Though it was none of her business, she knew Mr. Underhill had been sleeping on the boat rather than at the boardinghouse with Carrie. Perhaps he’d taken his vow to avoid having more children very seriously.
Seized by a perverse curiosity, she went to check out the boat, pulling up the buggy at the end of the dock.
“Morning, Miss Mundy.” Davy Morgan bobbed his bright red head in greeting.
She nodded back. Like most people, Davy neglected to address her by the title “Doctor,” but in his case, there was no malice intended. Yet when his employer, Bob Rapsilver, stepped out of the office, Leah’s defenses shot up like a shield.
The harbormaster made no secret of his dislike for her, ever since she’d advised him that the liver ailment he was always complaining about would abate once he gave up his daily pint of whiskey. Instead of giving up drink, however, he’d turned on her, openly questioning her morals, her intentions and her skill to anyone who would listen.
“Mr. Rapsilver,” she said with cool politeness.
“Miss Mundy.” He lifted a battered sailor’s cap. “You’re out and about bright and early today.”
“The Winfields had a fine, healthy son this morning.”
“Ah. Midwifing is a proper business.” He checked his pocket watch with a bored air. “Good to hear you weren’t out trying to do a man’s job.”
“I never try to do a man’s job,” she countered. “I do better.”
Davy snickered. Rapsilver pointed with a meaty hand. “Boy, weren’t you supposed to be testing the steam engine on Armstrong’s La Tache?”
“Already done, sir,” Davy said. “And it’s not safe. Almost burned my hand off trying to shut it down.”
“Are you all right?” Leah asked, concerned.
Davy nodded. “Yes, thank you, ma’am. But Mr. Armstrong’s not going to be too happy about his engine.”
“Be careful, then.” She jumped down, buggy springs squawking, and wound the reins around a cleat on the dock. She frowned at the rusty noise of the decrepit buggy. Another task to see to. Another problem to solve. Some days she felt like Sisyphus rolling a rock up a hill only to have it roll down again before reaching the summit.
Not today, she thought determinedly. She had brought a new life into the world and there were no other calls to make. She wouldn’t let worries drag her spirits down.
Lifting the hem of her skirts away from the damp planks, she walked to the end of the dock and peered at the schooner. It looked to be perhaps sixty feet in length. Its once-sleek hull had dulled, the paint peeling. Jackson had told her the boat was called the Teatime. Some long-ago optimist had painted the name on a fancy scrollwork escutcheon affixed to the stern. Now all that remained were the letters eat me.
Leah walked down the length of the boat. Even in its state of disrepair, the schooner had the classic stately lines of a swift blue-water vessel. Seeing it all broken and peeling made her a little sad, reminding her of a favored patient succumbing to the rigors of old age.
She wondered who had commissioned the ship. Had it called at exotic ports in distant lands? And how had it wound up in the possession of Jackson T. Underhill? What sort of man was he anyway? Where were he and his strange, beautiful wife going in such a hurry? North to Canada, she guessed, maybe to lose themselves in the wilderness.
The fact was, they were already lost. She could see that clearly. She wondered if they knew.
She hesitated on the dock. She did need to speak with Mr. Underhill. Her patient was agitated. She knew no easy way to tell him what Carrie said during her lucid moments. Perhaps she could ease into it.
There was a danger, too, of being alone with him. He was, after all, a man who had tried to abduct her. The harbormaster would be of little help if Jackson attacked her. But why would he? He needed her. From the first moment, even holding a gun to her head, he’d needed her.
Steadying herself by grasping a ratline, she stepped onto the boat. A gentle listing motion welcomed her. Moving across the cockpit, she went up a small ladder to the midships. The deck glittered with glass prisms set into the planks to provide daylight for the rooms below. In the middle of the deck was a skylight hatch angled open to the morning.
Bending, she leaned down to see inside.
“G’damned chafer,” said a furious male voice. “Chicken-bred bastard from hell—”
She clapped her hands over her ears. “Mr. Underhill!”
The hatch swung open and his head popped up. His face was flushed a dark red, brow and temples damp with sweat. “Hey, Doc.”
She cleared her throat. “I’m sure whoever you’re speaking to below would prefer that you keep a civil tongue in your head.”
To her surprise, he gave her a crooked grin. “I’m alone, Doc. Just having a little argument with this repair.”
To her further surprise, she felt her mouth quirk in amusement. “And is it working?”
“What?”
“Cursing. Is it helping to fix the boat?”
“No, but I feel better.”
She eyed a part of the rudder lying across the main deck. Ropes and pulleys lay scattered about. She had never done a destructive thing in her life until she’d sabotaged his boat, and despite the circumstances, she felt guilty.
“I’ll help you.” Without further ado, she clambered down the hatch. The heel of her boot caught the bottom rung of the ladder, and she lurched forward.
“Careful there.” Strong hands gripped her waist, thumbs catching just below her breasts.
He held her only a second, but it seemed like forever. Leah stopped breathing. It had been so long since anyone had touched her. His handling was impersonal, yet she couldn’t help acknowledging that no one had ever held her this way before.
She saw his eyes widen.
“No corset, Doc?” he observed. His frankness embarrassed her.
“Binding is terrible for one’s health.”
He lifted his hands, palm out, in a conciliatory gesture. “You won’t hear me objecting to a ban on ladies’ corsets.”
Self-consciously, she straightened her shirtwaist.
“Watch your step.” He indicated a tub of pitch and masses of coiled rope on the floor. He moved back and regarded her. His attention had an odd effect on her composure. Her face grew warm, her pulse quickened, and she felt completely foolish.
“So,” he said, his grin slightly off center. “You’ve come to help.”
“You look as if you could use it.”
“You’re not too busy?”
“I’ve already made one call today. If no emergency comes up, I’m free for the time being.”
“Well, thanks. That’s real nice of you, Doc.”
She shrugged. “I thought it was the least I could do, since…” She let her voice trail off.
“Since you’re the one who broke the steering,” he finished for her.
“You’re the one who tried to kidnap me,” she shot back.
He nodded. “You’re not one to own up to things, are you?” He handed her a wood spanner.
She snatched the tool from him. “And you’re not one to apologize for your actions.”
“Here, hold this steady. Yeah. Just like that.” He put a peg into a freshly drilled hole and tamped it tight with a mallet. “Some landlubber used iron bolts on this mast stepping and they rusted. I have to replace them with wood fastenings or the aft mast could come down.” He repeated the procedure several more times, but each time he tamped down a peg, the opposite one came up. He cursed fluently and unsparingly through gritted teeth.
She watched him for a while, holding the pegs and holding her tongue until she could stand it no more.
“May I make a suggestion?”
The mallet came down squarely on his thumb. He shut his eyes, jaw bulging as he clenched it. “Shoot.”
“Why don’t you cut the pegs a longer length, then after they’re all in, trim the wood flush with the deck?”
He stared at her for a long moment. She thought he was going to argue with her or ridicule her. That was what men always did when a woman dared to comment on their work. Instead, he said, “Good idea. We’ll do it your way.”
She still had to hold the pegs for him, and he had to lie on his side to reach all the fittings, but his mood lightened as the work progressed. He had a long frame, lean and sinewed, and appeared to be remarkably healthy. The human body was her calling, her obsession, and it pleased her to watch him.
More than it should have.
“So,” he said at length, and she started guiltily, certain he knew she’d been studying him. “How is it you came to be a female doctor?”
She let out a relieved breath. “How I came to be a female is by accident of birth.”
He laughed. “I guess I deserved that.”
“How I came to be a doctor is by reading, hard work, a rigorous apprenticeship, and ward study in a hospital.” And how did you become an outlaw? she wanted to ask—but she didn’t dare.
His eyes narrowed as he sealed one of the pegs with glue. “You sure talk a lot and say nothing.”
His observation startled her. “I suppose you’re right.”
“So what’s the real story?” He stood and brushed off his leather carpenter’s apron. She liked it better than the gun belt.
“Why do you want to know?” Why on earth would it matter to you? she wondered.
